


Lingering Life

by Moonfreckle (Sunfreckle)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: A bit darker than my usual stuff, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, But I never hurt for the sake of hurting, First Meeting, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Magic, Magical Injury, Magical Realism, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-17 19:54:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13666167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunfreckle/pseuds/Moonfreckle
Summary: Jehan hates being called a necromancer and it is very hard for their magic to take hold when they know next to nothing about their patient. But whatever his lies, the fear that the young man in the mask feels is real. And his friend, stretched out on a bed, much closer to death than to life, has only very little time left.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw: injury, anxiety, animal skulls, blood, nail biting, imagery of death, necromancy-like magic.

 

Jehan doesn’t have to sing to make the incantations work, but it feels more natural than saying the same thing over and over again. So they’ve been singing their throat raw, trying to soothe it with one of their herbal teas whenever they can’t go on. The young man in the mask –  Claquesous, Jehan had been able to find out eventually – dutifully brings them whatever ingredients they ask for, but refuses to drink anything himself. Even though he really should. Jehan can feel the dread coming off him and with every passing day it has gotten worse.

Jehan’s voice cracks in the middle of a sentence and they swallow, reaching for their cup. Claquesous looks up at them from his chair in the corner. He’s biting on the skin around his nails, making it look like the mask is swallowing his hand whole.

“Did something happen?” he asks sharply.

“No,” Jehan shakes their head and they take a sip from the strangely dainty cup Claquesous brought them. “Nothing bad, just me.”

Claquesous breathes out shakily and glances at the still body on the bed that’s been dragged to the middle of the strange basement room Jehan has been forced to make into their crafting space. They only know the name of their patient because they overheard one of Claquesous companions mention it to him. Montparnasse. Like the cemetery. But Jehan is trying not to think of that now, because the way Montparnasse is lying there, with Jehan’s treasured skulls placed carefully around him like clusters of pale flowers, he looks like he’s been laid out on a bier.

“It’s been six days,” Claquesous breathes.

Jehan makes an effort to meet the dark eyes glittering frantically behind the mask. “It often takes time.”

“You said we had _seven_ days.” There is a sharp edge to Claquesous’ voice and Jehan looks away.

They still haven’t been able to find out exactly how Claquesous and Montparnasse are connected. The other two men living here, whose names Jehan still does not know, seem just as intent on helping their friend, but are far less frantic. To tell the truth, Claquesous is probably the only reason Jehan came here willingly. Because they don’t appreciate being laid in wait for at their own home, and they _hate_ to be called a necromancer, but the unrestrained fear in Claquesous’ eyes had been more convincing than either the broad man’s threatening posture or the thin man’s threatening words. So they allowed him to escort them here and they have been here since. It must be just past sunrise now. Sunrise on the seventh day.

“That means we have one more day,” Jehan says finally. They don’t believe in giving false hope, but they don’t believe in giving up either.

Claquesous mutters something under his breath and brings his hand to his mouth again. He starts back, fingers cramping up,  and lets out a hissing swear.

“Are you alright?” Jehan asks, getting nimbly to their feet and walking towards him.

“Fine,” he grunts, wiping his index finger on his trousers. It’s bleeding and no wonder, he’s bitten his nail-bed raw.

“Will you let me help with that?” Jehan says gently.

Claquesous stares at them for a moment, making Jehan wonder once again why he is so intent on hiding his face, but then he silently holds out his hand.

Jehan takes it carefully, their own hand looking very pale against his dark skin, and slips the other into their pocket. They take out a small, delicately built skull, a field mouse, and press their thumb into the sigil they carved on the top of it before placing it carefully on Claquesous’ palm. They have barely finished murmuring the incantation before the sigil cracks, splitting the skull in two. Jehan winces a little, like they always do, but they smile seeing the raw edges of skin on Claquesous’ fingers mend and heal.

Claquesous’ eyes are wide and he seems afraid to move his hand, staring at it like he saw it burning. “What did  you do?” he breathes and his eyes dart up to Jehan’s face. “Is that- Is that what you’re trying to do with Parnasse?”

Jehan nods, taking the cracked skull out of his palm and slipping it into a different pocket of their coat. It is truly dead now, not a shred of life left clinging to it. They will give it a proper burial as soon as they can.

“How-” Claquesous studies his fingers incredulously. “How does it work?”

A faint smile ghosts over Jehan’s face. Six days of healing rituals to pull his friend back from the brink of death and only now does he ask.

“Death is a straightforward thing,” Jehan replies, sitting down on a nearby crate, close enough so they can look at Claquesous properly while they speak. “But life is not. When a living being dies, not all of it dies at once. Sometimes something of the lower life force lingers and the right magic can bind it to its vessel.  That is what I do.”

Claquesous looks at the clusters of skulls placed on the bed. Those belong to larger creatures, nothing smaller than a cat, and they all bear the same sigil. “Your skulls crack when the life in them is spent,” he says slowly.

“Yes,” Jehan says. They will never learn to like that part, but it is inevitable.

“Then…what is keeping it from working?” There is a low note of dread to Claquesous’ voice and Jehan would have reached out to touch him if they had not been so certain he would never accept that.

“I can only _offer_ help,” they explain gently. “I cannot force it. Your friend was hurt by magic…” They glance at Montparnasse’s motionless form. Apart from the hollowness of his eyes he does not look hurt. He is barely breathing and his heartbeat is so faint Jehan could not catch its rhythm to sing to it no matter how hard they tried, but his body seems unharmed. “Perhaps he does not know how to mend what is broken in him.”

“But _you_ -”

“ _I_ do not mend anything,” Jehan interrupts Claquesous firmly. “What you just saw, was your own body healing itself because I gave it the opportunity to do so.”

Claquesous looks from Montparnasse’s still face to Jehan’s and back again. “Can’t you…can’t you help?”

Jehan bites their lip. They do not even know what happened to Montparnasse. They know nothing about him apart from his name and how important he is to his friend. They do not even know his magic. “I have found that healing blindly usually does more harm than good.”

Claquesous lets out a hollow laugh. “What more harm could you possibly do to him now.”

The chill Jehan feels slide down their back must be noticeable for Claquesous as well, because he meets their eyes again. “You do not want me to answer that,” Jehan says solemnly.

A heavy silence falls between them. Jehan does not feel up to breaking it, but they try saying the incantations in their mind. Perhaps if they weave Montparnasse’s name into the words, he will hear them. It is hard to speak to someone they have never looked in the eye.

“What is Montparnasse’s magic like?”

They have been wanting to ask that ever since they laid eyes on him. They can nearly feel his power humming underneath his skin, but it doesn’t feel familiar. It is unlike what they have felt in any of their friends.

Claquesous is rubbing his face underneath his mask, displacing it enough to show Jehan the edge of a face that is surprisingly young. “That is a question _you_ don’t want answered,” he says darkly.

“You mean you don’t want to tell me,” Jehan sighs. “Just like you didn’t want to tell me about your magic.”

Even without seeing Claquesous’ facial expression Jehan knows it is resentful. They had been able to feel the familiar pattern of emotion manipulation as soon as Claquesous got close to them. It was very like Bossuet’s, only just a bit sharper, harsher.

Claquesous says nothing and suddenly a thought occurs to Jehan.

“Do you think I won’t want to help him anymore if I know?”

A moment before Claquesous was still halfway lounging in his chair, now he is sitting near-frozen.

Jehan looks at him attentively. “Because it is far too late for that, you know.”

At last the dark eyes look up again. “What.”

“I decided to help when you asked me,” Jehan says calmly. “I don’t change my mind.”

They want their magic to work. They want to see Montparnasse’s eyes open and his handsome features come back to life. Even if they had not fully decided to help on the strength of Claquesous’ plea, they would have lost any hesitation upon seeing Montparnasse. Because they agree with Claquesous. With the words he whispered to them that night in their garden, six days ago. “ _He can’t die._ ” Jehan does not know why, but they cannot help but agree. Montparnasse cannot die. And perhaps that is a solely selfish wish, because when they look at him, and feel that strange magic just out of reach, Jehan cannot _bear_ the thought of never actually meeting him.

“Would it help you heal him?” Claquesous breaks into their thoughts. “If you knew what his magic was?”

Jehan shakes their head regretfully. “It would help me if I could _understand_ his magic, but I do not recognize it and there is no time to teach me.”

Claquesous makes a strange noise and Jehan gives him a questioning look.

“If you really wanted to know, you could have lied,” he says.

Jehan’s lips curl slightly in distaste. “I wouldn’t lie about something like that.”

Another nondescript sound at the back of his throat. Suddenly Claquesous drops his head down to his hands, slumping forward and burying his fingers into his dark hair. “You have no idea,” he grunts. “How badly I want to give all this to you.”

Jehan can feel the truth of it. Sometimes they can sense Claquesous’ anxiety almost snaking towards them. He is desperate not to feel these things.

“I appreciate the self-control,” Jehan says gently.

This time Claquesous nearly laughs. He doesn’t lift up his head though and Jehan leaves him be. They get to their feet and quietly walk to the bed. With loving attention they rearrange the skulls in their repeating patterns of threes. They do not touch Montparnasse though and they really try not to stare at him. Montparnasse… _Montparnasse_ … There is nothing in the name that matches the humming they feel in the distance. And still his heartbeat is too weak. His breathing too shallow. What if he cannot hear them calling? What if he simply can’t _find_ the gifts they brought…

“He’s a thief.”

Jehan starts. They had not heard Claquesous move, but suddenly he is standing beside them. He is tall and even when he leans towards his friend Jehan has to look up slightly to look into his face. “A thief?” they repeat.

“The cleverest thief you’ve ever met,” he mutters. “He doesn’t even need physical contact. And he can take almost anything. Memories, feelings, strength...”

Jehan feels a tightness in their chest. A _thief_. They don’t answer and Claquesous says nothing more. He stands over Montparnasse a moment longer and then he retreats back to his corner.

When Jehan starts singing again, he closes his eyes.

Jehan waits until the gentle breathing of sleep fills the room before they change the words of their song. On silent feet they circle the bed and take back their cherished skulls. One by one they take them away from Montparnasse and cradle them in their arms for a moment before placing them gently on the ground. Not in threes this time, but in a circle. Circles in circles, all of them side by side, each guarding the other. Until they are all gathered together and Jehan sits down, placing themselves between Montparnasse and their treasures. They have forgotten about their tea, but they are still singing. Still singing to Montparnasse. But this time it is a different tune. What is offered freely _can_ be taken back. A _thief_.

Six days they have been here, not knowing why or at whose command. Today is the seventh day and it will be a short one. It is early in the year, the sun is still shy. Jehan sings and waits for sundown. It is always about sunrise or sundown. Montparnasse feels like someone for sundown…

Jehan does not notice when Claquesous wakes. They are chanting, tired words tumbling stubbornly from their lips.

“What have- _What are you doing?_ ”

Claquesous is beside them in an instant and his hands reach out for the skulls, but he does not touch them. He looks back towards Montparnasse, who still lies sleeping like the dead.

“What have you _done?_ ”

Jehan shakes their head and bows it low, chanting possessive words that want to stick on the inside of their mouth.

Claquesous backs away from them, footsteps unsteady on the tile floor. “If you- I _swear_ -”

A nauseating crack rings out like a shot and the last syllable slides mercifully off Jehan’s tongue. Another crack. Another. The skulls are breaking and Jehan turns away, scrambling backwards so they don’t have to see. They all break, splitting right through the sigil and in the sudden quiet that follows, Montparnasse draws a stuttering breath.

With a movement as quick as a shadow’s Claquesous is by the bed. “Parnasse?”

Jehan gets to their feet just in time to see the long lashes flutter up and the red lips move. “Sous?”

The sound that escapes from Claquesous’ chest echoes inside Jehan’s mind as loudly as the breaking of bone. He sinks to his knees and slumps forward, his fingers grasping at the fabric of Montparnasse’s shirt and his forehead nearly leaning against him.

Montparnasse reaches for him with a movement that is so controlled that it makes relief come alive in Jehan’s entire body.

“You bastard,” he mutters weakly, digging his fingers into Claquesous’ shoulder for a moment. “That’s the last time I let you design the balancing charm.”

“Fuck off,” Claquesous breathes and he raises his head, his voice sounding choked and his mask slid up past his forehead.

Jehan can see now that he is barely older than Montparnasse. Barely older than themself. They blink, slowly looking from Claquesous to Montparnasse and just when they do, his eyes meet theirs. They’re green. Green and attentive and _alive_.

For a moment Montparnasse just looks at them, but then his lips form into something very like a smile. When he speaks his voice is darker, smoother, than it was before. “Are you the one that sings?”

“Yes,” Jehan says, hands trembling slightly and an involuntary smile playing around their own lips. “And you are the one that can’t see what is given freely, but _will_ take what is guarded against him.”

The fascination on Montparnasse’s face is as genuine as Claquesous’ exasperated exclamation of understanding. He gets to his feet, rubbing violently at his face.

“Why didn’t you fucking tell me,” he grunts, pulling his mask back in place.

“You might not have trusted me,” Jehan replies, without taking their eyes off Montparnasse. “I told you I wouldn’t lie, but that doesn’t mean I have to tell you the truth.” They feel giddy. They feel light. They are _reeling_.

“I have two things to say,” Montparnasse says, sitting up with the grace of a cat woken from nothing but a comfortable slumber, before Claquesous can even open his mouth. “The first is—” And his eyes are fixed on Jehan so intently that they feel their face heat up in spite of themself. “—that I would give just about _anything_ right now to know your name. And the second—” A grin graces his face. “—is that you’re welcome to try and kill me again, Sous. It was worth it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely sure where that came from, but I hope you enjoyed it regardless.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out to Azura who asked to see Jehan be protective of their skulls.

Between Montparnasse’s eyes and the exhilaration of magic pulsing through their blood Jehan has a hard time keeping a clear head. They have never worked with this much life force, they have never had to pull _so_ hard. Something deep inside them is still shaking.

“You still haven’t told me your name…” Montparnasse reminds them, sliding off the bed carefully. His voice is smooth as silk, but it’s not just his voice making a shiver run down Jehan’s spine. They can feel the raw power radiating off Montparnasse. His attention is fixed on them, but so is his magic. It feels almost like fingers brushing past the back of their neck…

Jehan takes a step back.

“Parnasse.” Claquesous voice is as expressionless as his mask, but Jehan feels the breath of magic on their skin fade.

“I must say,” Montparnasse smiles, folding his hands behind his back. “You work wonders.” He takes a deep breath. “I haven’t felt this good in ages.”

The soft scoffing noise Claquesous makes behind them doesn’t escape Jehan. They give Montparnasse a vague smile. “I’m glad I could help…”

There is another, more familiar sound behind them and Jehan turns away from Montparnasse to see Claquesous crouching down by the collection of skulls on the floor.

“Oh,” Jehan says hastily, darting to the corner where they put the two big baskets they arrived with. “I’ll take care of that.”

“What are those for?” The curiosity in Montparnasse’s voice makes him sound a little younger.

“These are what they used to save your worthless life,” Claquesous snorts, turning a cat’s skull towards Montparnasse so he can see the cracked sigil.

The bone scrapes against the tile floor and Jehan winces, the handles of the baskets slipping through their fingers. “Please don’t—”

“How?” Montparnasse asks, darting past Jehan and towards Claquesous. “There’s nothing there, they’re dead.”

They are _now_. Not before. _They died for you_. Jehan blinks, swallows and puts out a hand. “Can I—”

Claquesous taps on a doe skull. “Come on, Parnasse,” he sneers, but there’s a warmth to the amusement in his voice. “Don’t be slow.”

“You _trapped_ life force in _those_?” Montparnasse gapes, hands reaching out eagerly.

“Not trapped!” Jehan snaps, starting at the shrillness of their own voice. “Bound. And _please_ don’t touch them!”

Two pairs of eyes stare up at them. Both Claquesous and Montparnasse retract their hands. Jehan’s heart is racing.

“They’re not things,” they manage to force past their lips. “They’re important.” They turn their eyes on Montparnasse. “They saved your life.”

Montparnasse slants his head, looking oddly like an animal as he crouches beside Claquesous. “ _You_ saved my life.”

Jehan swallows. “They helped.”

Montparnasse sits back on his heels, looking at them silently. Jehan cannot read his expression and they wish they could, but to their surprise Claquesous suddenly gets to his feet. They can tell he’s rising carefully, so as not to disturb their skulls.

“Alright,” he says. “We’ll leave you to take care of them.” He pushes against Montparnasse with his foot.

Montparnasse rises, but he does not take his eyes of Jehan and clearly has no intention of leaving. “Let me help,” he offers and the silk in his voice is back.

Jehan’s heart skips a beat.

“They don’t want your help,” Claquesous says bluntly. His fingers wrap around Montparnasse’s arm. “Come, Gueul needs to look you over.”

“I’m fine,” Montparnasse snarls.

“You were out for a _week_ ,” is the hissed reply.

“Your friends don’t even know you’re alright yet,” Jehan speaks up. “I’m sure they’re worried sick.”

There is a twitch in the fingers resting on Montparnasse’s arm and Jehan glances at the eyes gleaming behind the mask.

“I’ll be right back,” Claquesous says and before Jehan has time for more than a grateful look, Claquesous has forced Montparnasse up the stairs and out the door.

The room feels empty and almost cold without the two of them and Jehan turn quickly to their skulls. They are empty vessels now. Never to be filled again. They draw the nearest basket towards them and take out one of the soft cloths lying on the bottom of it. Slowly, soberly, they take up the cat’s skull and wrap it up. Next is the doe and afterwards all the others. One by one. With care and attention. Jehan feels a little faint, something like nausea trickling down their sides. They used them all up at once. All of them. Jehan breathes through the unsteady feeling of loss in their chest and slowly fill the baskets. Upstairs they can hear raised voices. They sound angry rather than happy. But some people are like that when they’re very relieved…

With a sigh Jehan places the last skull in its basket and gets to their feet. They look straight into the masked face of Claquesous, who is standing at the bottom of the stairs watching them.

“I didn’t hear you come down!” Jehan starts.

“Didn’t want to disturb you,” he says.

Jehan breathes out and smiles. “Thank you. I’m— I’m done.”

Claquesous nods. He glances at the big, heavy baskets and Jehan says hastily:

“I’d prefer carrying them myself.”

On the way over here Claquesous carried one of the baskets, but this time they don’t want to let any of them go. Not as they are now. Jehan needs to carry them home.

“Ok.” Claquesous doesn’t argue. Doesn’t comment when they struggle to carry their bag and the two baskets, he just goes up the stars in front of them and holds the door open for them.

Jehan follows him through the house they have barely had time to look at and cannot properly inspect now either. They can still hear muffled voices.

“They’re upstairs,” Claquesous says calmly.

“Oh, ok.” Jehan is suddenly very sure that Claquesous has arranged it so that the others will not see them. They’re not sure how they feel about that. Probably grateful. They should be grateful. But maybe Montparnasse is—

“I’ll bring you home then?” It’s a question, one that actually asks for an answer.

“Please,” Jehan mutters.

Claquesous hardly says a word during the journey and Jehan, only just beginning to feel how very tired they are, does not have the energy to make him talk. His silence is not pressing, however, not cold or sullen. There’s something attentive about it.

Jehan really doesn’t need Claquesous to bring them all the way to their door, but for some reason they don’t tell him this. This is the last time they’ll see him after all. At least…

“You never named a price.”

“No,” Jehan says after a slightly startled moment.

Claquesous glances at them and they wish he would take off his mask.

“I presume that is because you don’t want payment,” he says, measuredly.

Jehan looks up into his eyes for a moment and then looks away again. “It’s because there is no payment,” they say. “I wouldn’t ask you to put a price on the life of someone you love.”

There is a decided change in Claquesous’ silence for a moment. Then he says: “That does not mean there shouldn’t be an exchange.”

“You can’t pay me for this,” Jehan says firmly. They feel the weight of the baskets pulling heavy on their arms and they add: “For them.”

Claquesous hums. He feels almost like a different man than the anxious, restless person Jehan had spent the past seven days and nights with. Not unreasonable, considering what he had been going through, but the change is so big that it does make Jehan wonder. That is none of their business though.

“I don’t want payment,” Jehan says, just to be completely clear.

Claquesous makes another vague noise. “We owe you,” he says gravely.

“Maybe so,” Jehan says, voice low. “But like I said, you _can’t_ pay me for this.”

“Then,” Claquesous says. “The Patron-Minette owe you a favour.”

“I don’t—”

“If we can’t pay you, you did us a favour,” Claquesous interrupts. “Plain and simple.”

Jehan shuts their mouth. Very well. Favours can remain outstanding. They are under no obligation to make us of it. Then again…

“There’s one thing I want you to tell me.”

Claquesous is silent, but this time Jehan waits for him to answer. “And that is?” he says finally.

They’ve arrived at Jehan’s house, but instead of walking up to the front door Jehan walks around it to go in through the back garden. Claquesous follows without questioning it. Jehan waits until the garden gate is closed behind them before they turn to Claquesous and ask seriously:

“How did you find me?”

Claquesous slants his head. “Gueul has second sight,” he answers.

“Ah.” Jehan guesses that Gueul must be the broad man.

“I did not tell him to find a necromancer, if that is what’s bothering you,” Claquesous says suddenly. “I told him to find a healer.”

Jehan worries their bottom lip with their teeth. “Why did you pick me then?” They know for a fact they are not the best healer in town. Although they wonder if a healer…a normal healer, would have been able to help Montparnasse.

Claquesous looks at them for a long moment and shrugs. “I go with my gut.”

“Well then,” Jehan mutters. “I’m glad you did.” And they are. Genuinely glad, even while carrying death in their baskets instead of life. They are glad they were able to help.

“We owe you,” Claquesous repeats and Jehan suspects that is meant as a thank you, so instead of protesting again they try for a smile.

“Have a good trip back home, Claquesous,” they say.

Claquesous tips his head back a little. “Have a good night, Jehan.”

With nigh inaudible footsteps he moves through the garden an out the gate, leaving Jehan in the quiet stillness of their familiar surroundings. For a while they just stand there. Perhaps to make sure Claquesous has left, perhaps simply to fully realise they are at home again.

When they finally go inside, Jehan makes an effort to be quiet. Their upstairs neighbours are probably asleep already. It’s late. They’re tired. And the two baskets need tending to. But even so Jehan goes straight to the phone on the side table and dials Feuilly’s number. Not that of his home phone of course, but his workshop’s. It rings and to Jehan’s relief it’s almost immediately answered.

“Feuilly? It’s Jehan,” they say, doing their best to keep their voice free of anything that might incite worry. “Could I come by tomorrow? …I need a new shielding amulet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't going to be a story...and I still don't know where to go with it, but I figured I might as well start uploading for real anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many many thanks to Amanda for encouraging me, worldbuilding with me and basically proofreading this <3
> 
> Cw: magic snogging :P

When Claquesous comes home there is loud music coming from Gueulemer’s room and Babet seems to have gone. Sure enough, his door is locked. The door to Montparnasse’s room is shut as well. Montparnasse himself, however, Claquesous finds sitting on his bed. He’s leaning against the headboard, a notebook resting against his knee, ballpoint idly in his hand. Like he belongs there. And like he didn’t just come back from nearly dying.

Claquesous lingers in the doorway until Montparnasse looks up at him. “Gueul says I’m fine,” he says, just a bit too smug to sound nonchalant.

“Of course you are,” Claquesous sneers, but he can feel a last knot of lurking anxiety loosen in his midriff. “You’re a lucky piece of shit you know that,” he grunts.

“Who needs luck when you’ve got an honest-to-god _necromancer_ at your disposal,” Montparnasse grins, eyes lighting up.

Claquesous hadn’t expected Montparnasse to take any of this seriously, but he hadn’t expected him to be quite this blasé about it. He should have though, of course he should have. “ _At your disposal_ ,” he mutters darkly and finally walks across the room, sitting down on the edge of the bed to take off his shoes.

Montparnasse flashes him a grin, but Claquesous turns away from him.

“You delivered them safely home then?” Montparnasse says lightly.

“Hm.” Claquesous tosses his shoes across the room.

Behind him, Montparnasse breathes out an exaggerated sigh. “They sure were pretty for a necromancer…”

Jehan doesn’t like to be called a necromancer… Claquesous wonders why. It isn’t just about secrecy. He’s certain of that. He sits staring into nothing for a while, until he hears the scratching of Montparnasse’s pen. Claquesous closes his eyes and thinks back to the past seven days. That was way too close. He’s not going to let that happen again. He can’t let it happen again. Ever.

Slowly, Claquesous takes off his mask and puts it aside. He runs his hand through his hair before letting his head hang down for a moment, arms resting on his knees. He breathes out soundlessly and forces his mind to go blank.

There’s a soft, nearly indifferent nudge against his back and Claquesous looks round at Montparnasse. He’s just in time to see him retract his foot again. His eyes haven’t left his notebook.

Claquesous turns around, drawing one leg up under him and looks at Montparnasse. He’s wearing pyjama’s Claquesous has never seen before and where his hair curls out from under his ears it looks slightly damp still. He must have showered.

Montparnasse doesn’t look up and Claquesous keeps watching. He has barely noticed the tension draining from his shoulders, but he can feel the absence of it now. Maybe none of it happened. Montparnasse looks like it never happened. Even the shadows under his eyes are gone. His eyes are fixed critically on the paper, following the movements of his pen. Or the movements of his hand. His hands are elegant, like all of him is. Claquesous wants him to look up. To look back at him. To put the damn notebook away.

With a slight shift in focus Claquesous lets his eyes close partially. He keeps them fixed on Montparnasse though, on his face.

Magic is an art. Posh tutors like to compare it to playing an instrument. Claquesous’ own feelings are his instrument. In between breaths, with a movement that toes the line between calculated and intuitive, he carefully chooses the feelings he wants to indulge in. They are very easy to keep foremost in his mind when Montparnasse is moving his lips like that.

Once it feels like there’s really nothing else on the surface of his being but the desire to reach out and touch Montparnasse, Claquesous loosens his hold over himself and lets the feelings spill out. If he does it slowly enough, he will not lose the sensation himself. Gueulemer doesn’t like it when he does this, it gives him visions of bleeding. Claquesous doesn’t see anything, but he can feel his emotions trickle out of him as he focusses shamelessly on Montparnasse.

Montparnasse’s posture changes. The scratching of the pen stops and Claquesous’ can see his eyes glaze over as his own emotions start to blur in to Montparnasse’s. This is easier with him than with almost anyone else. Not because Montparnasse’s mind is unprotected like some people’s, but because Claquesous knows the way in.

And because Montparnasse lets him.

The notebook slides from Montparnasse’s hand as he tips his head back until it is resting against the wall. His eyes close and he sighs slightly, his lips parting as if he can breathe in the want that Claquesous is pouring into him. It does look like that’s what Montparnasse is doing, his breathing becoming uneven and shallow, colour rising into his pale cheeks.

Claquesous steadies his own breathing. He shouldn’t give too much. Not this soon, not this easily. He pulls back just a little.

Montparnasse’s eyes open instantly and dart in his direction.

“More,” he demands and without waiting for any sort of answer he moves towards Claquesous across the bed.

Claquesous takes in the arch of Montparnasse’s back and the way his knees press into the mattress and lets the eagerness that’s twisting in his stomach wrap around Montparnasse as well.

The sound that escapes Montparnasse’s lips makes Claquesous self-control waver and he reaches out. His fingertips brush past Montparnasse’s jaw and Montparnasse makes the sound again, eagerly clasping his hand over Claquesous’ to keep it in place. Actual physical contact makes the transfer so much stronger, so much harder to control.

Claquesous controls it anyway, staring at the way Montparnasse holds on to him. One hand pressed against his own, the other grabbing at his shoulder as he sits – no, _kneels_ – in front of him. Montparnasse is greedy. He always is. Greedy and demanding. And _so_ powerful. It’s been years and Claquesous is still not used to it. Montparnasse’s magic tears through the natural defences of the world like they’re hardly there and Montparnasse does it just to show he can. Even if there is nothing to take, nothing he _wants_ to take. He’s quick and bright and reckless. Always just a breath away from acting on impulse. He uses his magic almost continually, focussed wholly on concealing his power instead of reigning it in. Claquesous doesn’t understand it. It’s terrifying. And intoxicating.

There’s a tell-tale tug on his mind and Claquesous opens his eyes. He hadn’t realized he had closed them. His thoughts had gotten away from him. Montparnasse is very close, both hands resting on his shoulders now.

“You’re holding out on me,” he drawls, fingers digging into Claquesous’ shoulders.

Claquesous groans slightly. He can feel Montparnasse pull on his emotions. Feeling around hungrily. It’s not exactly a pleasant feeling. Or it shouldn’t be. It’s invasive and inconsiderate. But it’s what being around Montparnasse feels like and fuck, Claquesous is just about ready to lose it about how damn _normal_ Montparnasse feels. After everything that happened—

“What are you _doing_ ,” Montparnasse complains in frustration and his hands grab at the back of Claquesous neck for a moment.

Claquesous doesn’t bother answering him. Instead he tramples the stray threads of fear and incredulity and focusses all of his being on need and yearning.

An adoring sound escapes Montparnasse’s lips in response and he tries to pull Claquesous closer. “ _Give me_ ,” he demands and his magic digs its nails in viciously.

Claquesous moves so abruptly that Montparnasse’s hold on his shoulders slips and as soon as he’s thrown off balance physically, Claquesous pushes back hard against Montparnasse’s hold on his mind with years of training. Montparnasse’s magic slips, just like his fingers and Claquesous grabs a handful of his hair, pulling his head back sharply to expose his throat. Montparnasse gasps and Claquesous sends the shudder that goes through him in response straight into Montparnasse.

His breath hitches sharply, almost whining, and Claquesous leans forward slowly, ghosting his lips over Montparnasse’s throat. He listens to Montparnasse’s stuttering breathing and moves his lips down to the curve of Montparnasse’s neck so slowly that he can feel Montparnasse squirm in his grip. He opens his mouth and waits until the desire to bite down is almost as impossible to restrain as his magic. But he can hold out for as long as it takes. Because Claquesous can get Montparnasse drunk on his feelings for him and seeing Montparnasse mad for more is almost better than touching him.

“ _Sous_ -” Montparnasse groans.

Almost.

Claquesous sinks his teeth into Montparnasse’s neck and lets the tethers keeping his magic back snap. For a moment Montparnasse’s gasps sound like he’s actually drowning. He’s writhing in Claquesous’ arms and for a moment Claquesous makes a half-hearted effort to pull away.

“No—” Montparnasse chokes. His hand finds the back of Claquesous’ neck and he drags him into a messy, greedy kiss.

Claquesous laughs, making Montparnasse swallow down the sounds as well as the feelings, and pushes him onto his back on the matrass.

It’s quite a long time before they’ve ended up sprawled out side by side on the bed and even longer before they have caught their breath. Claquesous focusses on reeling his feelings back in, Montparnasse does…whatever it is he always does. Claquesous thinks of it as basking.

Eventually, after a good while, Montparnasse rolls onto his side, closer towards Claquesous. He puts his head down close to his and looks at him drowsily. Claquesous keeps his gaze on the ceiling, still piecing together the layers of control that keep the distinction between inside and outside intact. Montparnasse does this sometimes, when he can feel Claquesous draw back into himself. It’s more obvious than Montparnasse seems to realize and Claquesous doesn’t comment on it for that very reason.

This time though, it seems Montparnasse has another reason. He props his head up on his elbow and waits for Claquesous to actually meet his eyes. “Tell me where you found the pretty necromancer.”

Claquesous looks steadily back at him. ‘Jehan,’ he wants to correct. But he doesn’t. “No,” he says flatly.

The flash of dismay in Montparnasse’s green eyes is barely checked, but his voice doesn’t change. “Why not?”

“Because we might need them again,” he replies and he adds bluntly: “And you’ll probably fuck something up.”

Montparnasse can frown very beautifully and Claquesous looks at him with calm admiration.

“We’ll go together then,” Montparnasse coaxes.

“No.”

Montparnasse sits up abruptly, the trademark frustration that always comes with denying him something he wants hanging over him like a shadow.

“I need to ask them how they do it,” he says sharply. “ _This_ —” He grabs the discarded notebook from where it has slid behind a pillow and taps angrily on the page. “This sigil is empty.”

The page is scrawled full with the same symbol Claquesous had seen carved in each of Jehan’s skulls. Montparnasse has a good memory for that sort of thing, Claquesous would not have been able to replicate it. The drawings are flat though, there is no magic there.

“It has no inherent power,” Montparnasse says discontentedly. “They must have designed it themself.”

“My word, really?” Claquesous drawls and Montparnasse’s eyes snap resentfully at him.

“I have never heard of a necromancer that bound life force instead of channelling it,” he says, eyes lighting up with something bright. “It’s…”

Strange. Intriguing. _Dangerous_.

“…creative.” Montparnasse gives him a coaxing look. “I just want to _ask_ them.”

Claquesous remembers the way Jehan drew back when they felt Montparnasse’s power and the laughing lights in Montparnasse’s eyes as they fussed over their skulls. “No.”

The narrowing of Montparnasse’s eyes is nearly unperceivable.

Claquesous feels the tap of Montparnasse’s magic against his mind before Montparnasse has even properly begun. He sends a snarling stab of anger his way.

Montparnasse winces and draws back.

“I’ll find out from Gueul or Babet,” he huffs.

“Good luck,” Claquesous says indifferently. Gueulemer’s mind is hell to navigate, too full and confusing for even himself to manage at times. And Babet is forgetful, indifferent to too much. And Montparnasse’s magic is wasteful. He is good at breaking through people’s defences, but once he actually gets his hands on something, it always deteriorates. What’s more, when Montparnasse takes something from someone it is truly gone. So when it comes to information it’s hardly worth the risk.

“You told them not to tell me,” Montparnasse scowls.

Claquesous smirks. “No, I asked them, _nicely_.”

Montparnasse’s eyes flash. “Is that what you did with them as well? Ask nicely…”

Claquesous doesn’t answer that. He can still feel the sick, choking fear. He had tried to keep it to himself while speaking to Jehan. He’s not sure he managed.

Montparnasse’s expression changes a little and suddenly he lies back down. “Fine,” he huffs. He folds one arm underneath his head and tugs on a strand of Claquesous hair with the other one. “I’ll ask you again when you’re feeling more generous.”

Claquesous snorts and bats his hand away. At least he does the first two times.

He doesn’t tell Montparnasse to knock it off.

Nor does he tell him to fuck off to his own bed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out to Jane, who asked very nicely to see Montparnasse 'break'. 
> 
> Cw: anxiety, nightmares, being temporarily restrained.

They should have waited for Babet. Amplification potions are far less volatile than the corresponding charms. And circle rituals have never been Claquesous strong suit, Montparnasse should have done it himself… If he had, maybe it wouldn’t have gone so wrong.

_Montparnasse can’t breathe. The air is being forced out of his lungs by the searing energy pouring into him from every direction. He can’t see for the light pouring out of his eyes. There is no way to hold on to this. It’s too much. He wants it all and he claws at it, but it’s slipping through his fingers. Ripping through him from the inside. He wants, he wants, he needs—_

_The blinding light dies. Montparnasse can’t keep it alive. He wasn’t strong enough and he’s drowning. His hands are dripping lead, too heavy to lift. There’s nothing to reach out for. Only gaping hunger in his insides. Nothing to fill it with. There’s never enough, but now there is nothing. He’s going to drown in it. Starve on it—_

There’s a sharp tap to his face and Montparnasse jolts awake. Lamplight stings in his eyes and he lashes out wildly. Cold metal digs into his skin and he screams, before a hand is clamped roughly over his mouth.

“Parnasse it’s me.”

Montparnasse’s eyes stare up into Gueulemer’s face and he stops thrashing. For all of a second. Then he kicks viciously.

Gueulemer removes his hand from his mouth and half a beat later he also lets go of the iron chain wrapped around Montparnasse’s wrists. _Hands dripping with lead_. Montparnasse shakes it off, hurling it away from him as hard as he can. It thumps against the wall and slides down with a dull clang.

Montparnasse’s hands clasp together instinctively, fingers grabbing at his wrists to lose the cold feeling of magic-choking metal. “Fuck you,” he gulps, letting his magic fan out wildly, scraping past the contours of the world around him, ready to grab what he can. But he’s not hungry. Not empty. He doesn’t need to take.

Gueulemer has taken a step back and is standing silently beside the bed, large and looming like a statue.

Montparnasse takes in frantic gulp of air. It was a dream. He was dreaming. It did happen, it _was_ real, but he isn’t in there anymore. This was just an echo. Just a dream. Fuck Gueulemer and that _fucking_ chain.

Before he can hurl any of the half-formed accusations brewing in his mind at his friend, however, he spots the amulet around Gueulemer’s neck. The dark wood and leather don’t stand out against his skin, but now he’s no longer half-asleep and full of panic Montparnasse recognises the shape. Gueulemer had to block his second sight to come in here. A weight settles in his stomach and he sits up straight on the now coverless bed.

“Did I leech?” he asks, his voice coming out strangely even.

“Don’t think so,” Gueulemer replies.

Montparnasse exhales and closes his eyes for a moment. If he didn’t hurt Gueulemer while he was so close, he can’t have done anything else.

When he opens his eyes Gueulemer his looking at him with an intensity that is nothing short of unnerving. Montparnasse doesn’t like it when Gueul uses amulets, he gets way too focussed.

“So, night terrors then,” Gueulemer says blankly.

“Lay off,” Montparnasse grunts, running a hand through his hair. “I nearly died remember.”

Gueulemer’s eyes narrow. “You _woke_ me,” he says darkly. “Your magic was going fucking haywire. There are scratch marks _everywhere_.”

Montparnasse feels cold and Gueulemer stares down at him. He knows what his magic looks like in Gueulemer’s visions. It’s never particularly flattering.

“You were doing it in your _sleep_ ,” Gueulemer frowns at him. “You _never_ do that.”

Well, he’s never felt like that before. The starving feeling is still clinging to the inside of Montparnasse’s mind. “Oh fuck off,” he mutters, going to sit on the edge of the bed. His legs feel strangely tired. “Nothing happened, did it.”

Gueulemer makes a threatening noise at the back of his throat. “I told you there’d be repercussions.”

“You didn’t tell me about _this_ ,” Montparnasse snaps. Gueulemer can fuck right off. His visions are usually no better than glorified hind sight. Useless images tears in walls and gready fingerprints. Nothing that can help Montparnasse not to feel like that again. That weak. That empty.

“Go sleep with Claquesous.”

Montparnasse blinks. “What?” he says, staring at Gueulemer.

“You didn’t have nightmares the first night,” Gueulemer says matter-of-factly.

Montparnasse opens and closes his mouth without making a sound.

“What,” Gueulemer scoffs. “You though I didn’t know?” He sniffs. “You’re both more tolerable when you’re together. So get your ass over there and let us both get some damn sleep.”

“No,” Montparnasse glares. Who the fuck does Gueulemer think he is?

“Oh come on, you guys are in and out of each other’s beds all the fucking time,” he says irritably.

Montparnasse bristles. “That’s none of your damn business. I don’t ask where you go on Tuesday evenings.”

Gueulemer doesn’t even react to that. He stares at Montparnasse for a long moment and says, far too calmly:

“I won’t put the runes on you again, but next time this happens I’m telling Sous.”

“Like hell you will,” Montparnasse snarls. The worry seeping out of Claquesous’ skin is disconcertingly tangible at times and he is still refusing to talk about the necromancer. Montparnasse cannot have him finding out about this.

“Well if you don’t want him to know then you better figure out a way to deal with it,” Gueulemer says. He’s insufferable when he’s like this. Montparnasse _hates_ this.

He claws a hand through his hair, looking away from Gueulemer’s damn judgemental frown. It’s not that it’s a big deal but… Montparnasse doesn’t actually _sleep_ with Claquesous that often. Especially not without the excuse of immediate exhaustion. Claquesous bleeds emotions in his sleep and he doesn’t like to have people close enough to touch when he isn’t fully in control. That is, of course, exactly why Montparnasse does like to be around him when he’s asleep. It’s also the reason why Gueulemer’s solution to this shitty situation makes a certain amount of sense.

“Fine,” Montparnasse grunts and he gets up, pushing his way past Gueulemer. “Get the fuck out of my room.”

“Keep your claws to yourself,” Gueulemer retorts coolly. And he picks up the iron chain with the rune-imprinted links with just a bit too much emphasis. He followings Montparnasse out the door and turns abruptly towards his own room.

Montparnasse throws a last glare in his direction, but Gueulemer isn’t watching him. He’s rubbing his left temple with one hand the other is tugging hesitantly on the amulet. Montparnasse makes a conscious effort to rein all his magic in as closely as he can. He doubts Gueul will sleep with that thing on, which means he’ll be drowning in background senses as soon as he takes it off. _Drowning_ …

With a vicious shove against that particular train of thought Montparnasse moves resentfully towards Claquesous’ room.

As soon as he slips inside and closes the door behind him, he feels the faint echo of tranquillity at the back of his mind. Claquesous’ curtains don’t block all the light from the streetlight outside and Montparnasse can see him lying sprawled out in the middle of his bed. Montparnasse was hesitant before, but he isn’t now. He walks round to the side of the bed that he usually ends up sleeping at for some unknown reason, and tugs on Claquesous’ covers.

Claquesous groans and actually moves over to let Montparnasse in, before groggily opening his eyes and frowning at the sight of Montparnasse getting into bed next to him.

“The fuck?” he mutters.

Instead of lying, Montparnasse leans towards Claquesous and drops his voice to a mockingly childish whine: “I had a bad _dream_ , Sous, make it better.”

Claquesous blinks at him in disoriented confusion, sleep still clinging heavily to his eyes. For a moment he stares at Montparnasse like he’s insane and then he makes a tired noise, grabs his second pillow and pushes it into Montparnasse’s direction.

Montparnasse grabs it and tucks it under his head, lying down on his side with a grin.

Claquesous gives him one last incredulous look, before resolutely burying his face in his own pillow and falling back asleep almost instantly.

The tranquillity hanging in the air never really faded, but as soon as Claquesous breathing becomes deep and even again, it grows noticeably stronger. Montparnasse draws his knees up a little and lets the foreign feelings was gently against the barriers of his mind. He doesn’t mean to reach out for more, but it’s too easy. _Keep your claws to yourself_. Montparnasse doesn’t use his claws though. He’s careful about it, gentle. And he doesn’t take too much. He only pulls a little. A little of the drowsiness, the calm, the tranquil sleep, towards himself. Claquesous doesn’t even stir and Montparnasse lets his magic dissipate as gently as he had it reach out. His eyes close on their own accord and, blissfully, Montparnasse actually begins to drift off. Here the dark isn’t blindingly bright or gapingly empty. Here it’s just quiet.

Just before he falls asleep, in harmony with a memory too fresh in his mind to have grown faint, Montparnasse hears the singing of the necromancer. Exactly in time with the rhythm of Claquesous’ breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's all I have so far... And I have nothing but very vague ideas on where to take this, but we'll see ^^;;
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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